Lace
by highlandgypsy
Summary: A one-shot that revisits the early days of Greg Boyington's relationship with war correspondent Kate "K.C." Cameron. Shameless flirty fluff involving Greg, Kate, Meatball and a lot of women's lingerie. The narrative weaves in and out of the timeline in Chapters 1 through 7 of "Front Page News: Second Edition." Because apparently I have nothing else to do.


A one-shot that revisits the early days of Greg Boyington's relationship with war correspondent Kate "K.C." Cameron. Shameless flirty fluff involving Greg, Kate, Meatball and a lot of women's lingerie. The narrative weaves in and out of the timeline in Chapters 1 through 7 of "Front Page News: Second Edition." Because apparently I have nothing else to do.

 **LACE**

 **Vella La Cava**

 **VMF 214 HQ**

 **Summer 1943**

 **1600 hours**

"I'm telling you, Greg, you gotta do something about Meatball." Lieutenant TJ Wiley threw his hands in the air in frustration. "He came into the tent last night when Dorrie and I . . . while we were . . ." He stopped, reluctant to express too much irritation at the unit's mascot since the dog was owned by his CO.

"A dog walking in while you're _entertaining_ isn't a deal breaker," Major Greg Boyington said. He tossed the pencil he was using to make calculations for the next day's mission onto his desk. From the look on TJ's face, this might take a while.

"It is when the dog takes your girl's underwear and runs off," TJ said gloomily. "I had enough trouble talking Dorrie out of them in the first place. She'll never come out here again."

"Maybe you should take her somewhere more private next time." Greg tried to keep the you-should-have-done-that-in-the-first-place tone out of his voice. "Girls appreciate more than a quickie in a tent before your bunkmate gets back." He wondered how in the hell a bunch of boys who were so skilled in aerobatic warfare could be such train wrecks when it came to romance. It wasn't like they didn't score with the nurses. They did, and with amazing regularity. But the resultant fall-out from those relationships created its own brand of chaos. It wasn't the first time he'd had to talk one of them down from a nurse-induced crisis although this time it sounded like the crisis had been caused by his dog. Again.

"It's too late for that," TJ moaned. He turned to leave and looked dejectedly over his shoulder. "She won't even talk to me now. And she's missing the bottom half of a matched bra and panty set, if it turns up anywhere. Pink silk and lace and all that. I guess she can't wear the top with a different bottom. Like it would break some kind of law. It's one of those girl things, ya know?"

Greg knew. Experience had taught him women set a lot of store by their undergarments, a fact he truly appreciated even if he didn't understand why they thought everything had to match. By the time it got to the point where a guy could see if they matched or not, they weren't going to stay on much longer. Admire the wrapping, then unwrap the gift.

"I'll take care of it," he said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had no idea how he was going to take care of it.

Short of tying Meatball up or confining him to a kennel, there wasn't much Greg could do to control him. The dog was a free spirit who roamed the base doing as he pleased and devil take the hindmost. As far as mascots went, he thought the bull terrier represented the Black Sheep with considerable accuracy. The boys all liked him well enough although if this string of underwear thefts continued, that would be subject to change.

"Damn dog. I should have left you in China," he muttered, his voice tinged with affection.

As if he didn't have enough on his mind already. Japanese ace Tomio "Tommy" Harachi had tried to kill him that morning over the Slot. Again. Colonel Lard had denied a critical number of his supply requisitions. Again. They were short on engine oil. Again. TJ was off the flight roster because he'd hit a tree and sheared the wingtip off his plane – probably because he'd been thinking about lace panties - and Jim Gutterman, one of his executive officers, had been caught in a compromising position with an admiral's daughter. The Scotch Greg planned to trade for the engine oil had been used to keep Jim out of the brig. Jim was only mildly repentant, Greg was furious and the boys only wanted to know if the girl had been worth it.

On top of everything else, the war correspondent Lard assigned to cover the Black Sheep had arrived last night and turned the 214 upside down. K.C. Cameron was not what any of them expected, not even close. She - yeah, she - turned out to be a knockout with a take no prisoners attitude. Dropping that package into the middle of his squadron had trouble written all over it. She needed to leave, the sooner the better. Greg had called General Moore and voiced his displeasure. Moore wasn't in the mood to hear it and cut Greg off before he had time to mention the correspondent was a she, not a he. In hindsight, that was probably for the best. If Moore knew Lard had stuck him with a female member of the press corps he'd have thought it was a fine joke and told Greg to deal with it. Which was pretty much what he told him anyway.

"We're all on the same side, Greg. Maybe your boys will try a little harder to stay out of trouble on the ground if they've got a reporter watching them," Moore had said and hung up.

Greg doubted it. That was exactly what Lard wanted – the Black Sheep in the press spotlight, for better or worse. He knew which one it would be.

Now Meatball's kleptomania for women's undergarments was just one more thing on the list of crap he needed to deal with. The bull terrier had an eye for everything from garter belts to bras. All things considered, Greg thought Meatball had good – if inappropriately expressed – taste. Greg appreciated the allure of a lace-covered breast and the way a girl's garters stretched along the curve of her thigh as much as the next guy but he wasn't stealing them at opportune moments and keeping them as trophies, either.

Given the number of times the boys complained about their girls losing garments to Meatball's thievery, he figured the dog had a stash somewhere on the base. He really needed to get this stopped before the terrier committed one offense too many.

As if on cue, Meatball trotted into the tent, a slip of pale pink silk dangling from his mouth.

"Give me those," Greg said. Rescuing lingerie that belonged to another guy's girl was a little awkward but letting the dog keep them only seemed to condone the behavior. Meatball froze, sensing a threat to his prize. He danced just out of Greg's reach.

"What's yer dog got now?" Jim slouched into the tent and dropped into a chair.

"TJ's girl's panties. He's a pervert."

"TJ?"

"No. Meatball."

Jim laughed.

"Naw. If he were stealing our skivvies he'd be a pervert. He only goes after girls' things so he's just an honorary Black Sheep."

Jim reached down to take the garment away. Meatball growled and backed up. Jim raised his hands in defeat.

"What's on your mind?" Greg poured Scotch into two canteen cups and handed one to his exec.

"Thanks." Jim took an appreciative sip. "Press corps."

Greg had no doubt Jim was not referring to the press corps in general. That entity tended to avoid extended stays with the 214, which was just fine with all of them.

"What's she done now?"

Jim looked vexed.

"Nothing in particular but she's still here. Ain't that enough?"

"It's only been a day. These things take time. When she packs up and leaves, it needs to be her idea. If we send her packing and she bellyaches to Lard, God knows who he'd send as a replacement. At least she's easy on the eyes."

"She is that," Jim agreed. "Girl's got a gorgeous set of legs on her. Still reckon I ought to give her a special welcome to La Cava."

"You go right ahead." Greg refreshed his drink. He couldn't say why but he didn't think Gutterman was her type. On the other hand, Jim might be just the ticket to getting the girl out of their hair. He didn't hold any love for the press corps, no matter how nice their legs were. Civilians got in the way out here. Civilians who looked like her not only got in the way, they distracted his men. If TJ clipped a tree over a pair of missing panties, one of the boys would end up wholesaling an entire plane if K.C. Cameron stayed here much longer.

"I dunno," Jim mused, steepling his fingers and grinning. "I think she kinda took a shine to you last night at the party."

"She got over that fast enough this morning." Greg scowled. He'd kind of liked her, too, as far as dancing and drinking in the Sheep Pen were concerned. If her welcome party had been any indication, she showed every sign of fitting into this unit with a degree of ease he hadn't anticipated. She danced and flirted and drank like she'd been born to it and that sure as hell wasn't going to make her easy to get rid of.

Jim snickered.

"Your little flyover this morning sure got her dander up." He drained his drink and stood. "Love a woman with a temper. All that heat carries over, if you know what I mean."

Greg knew exactly what he meant but that was the least of his problems. K.C. Cameron had a reputation for being an excellent reporter and photographer. He had no doubt she was under Lard's orders to put those skills to use putting the spotlight on his squadron. Why else would Lard embed a correspondent with them, especially one who'd been knocking around the war in Europe long enough to know what should – and shouldn't – take place on a fighter base.

"You let me know how that special welcome goes," he said.

Jim grinned.

"I'll be happy to share the details." He left.

Greg looked at the scattering of maps on his desk. The logistics of tomorrow's mission could wait. He turned to Meatball, who had leaped up on his bunk and was blissfully rubbing his face on the pink silk between his front paws.

Greg made another grab for the garment. Quick as a cat, Meatball snatched it up and bolted out of the tent. Greg swore. He hadn't reached the rank of major by shirking responsibility, no matter how trivial. Maybe a little under the table dealing now and then but not by blaming others for his problems. And Meatball was purely his problem.

He hollered a few half-hearted commands, knowing the dog would ignore him. Meatball had selective hearing. He jogged after him as the dog cut across the compound.

When the terrier tried to make a break between two tents to head God knew where, Greg sidestepped and cut him off. Meatball gave him an annoyed look and disappeared under a cargo truck parked nearby.

When a few minutes of trying to coax the dog out yielded no result, Greg ducked into the mess and snagged a piece of leftover toast. If there was anything the dog loved as much as lingerie, it was food. He returned to the truck and knelt by the back end. Meatball crouched just out of reach, looking belligerent, the panties still clamped between his teeth.

"C'mon, bring them here. Look. We'll trade."

Meatball eyed the toast, weighing the possibilities. Then, with unexpected speed, he dropped the panties and lunged forward. Before Greg could react, the dog grabbed the bread, shot past him and out of sight.

The abandoned slip of lace-trimmed silk lay squarely underneath the truck's drive train. They looked undamaged. Meatball treated his stolen goods with the care of a professional fence. TJ might be able to return them and get back in Dorrie's good graces, Greg mused. And get his head back in the game upstairs. He looked around the camp, which dozed in the mid-day heat. TJ was nowhere to be seen.

Ah, hell. There was nothing for it but to get them himself. Greg dropped flat on his stomach and elbow crawled under the vehicle, snagged the item in question and reversed course. He seriously considered tying Meatball to a tree for the rest of the war.

"I really should have left you in China," he muttered, pushing up to his hands and knees.

"Should have left who in China?"

The female voice came from just above his head. Greg swore silently. From his position on all fours behind the truck's dual tires, he could see a pair of bare legs from the knees down. They were shapely, toned and ended in feet tucked into worn leather boots. They were also six inches from his face. There was only one person on this rock who had legs like that.

He climbed out from under the truck and stood up, coming face to face with the only thing in his life that was more trouble than his dog. She glanced down and her smile broadened, amusement sparkling in smoke gray eyes.

Greg realized the panties were still dangling from his hand. He gave the offending garment a cursory inspection, briefly imagined the matching bra and garters that would have completed the set and thought Lieutenant Dorrie Axline had excellent taste in lingerie, if not enough sense not to log a horizontal flight plan with one of his men in on-base quarters. With a resigned sigh, he stuffed them unceremoniously into his pocket. No matter what he did at this point, it would all come down to damage control.

She still hadn't said anything, apparently willing to let him make the first move.

"This isn't what it looks like," he grumbled. He brushed dirt off what, until two minutes ago, had been a clean uniform.

K.C. - Katherine Christine – Kate - whatever the hell her first name was - just raised her eyebrows.

"I'm not really sure what it looks like. Should I start guessing?"

"Don't you have a job to do, Cameron?" It was easier to just use her last name.

"Yes." The smile continued. "I've been doing it."

Only then he noticed she was carrying a camera on a strap around her neck and had a notebook shoved in the hip pocket of her shorts. The sleeves of her white shirt were rolled past the elbows and the afternoon breeze tugged at curls escaping from the dark honey-colored braid that fell between her shoulder blades. Her gaze was an open challenge. His eyes fell on the split lip where she'd taken an elbow in last night's Sheep Pen brawl and it reminded him to proceed with caution. She wasn't a shrinking violet. Early hopes that she'd run screaming for the first transport out of here were fading by the minute.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He glared. He'd barely known her 24 hours and thought she asked entirely too many questions.

"You can ask anything you want, sweetheart, but I'm not obligated to answer."

It was her turn to glare and he realized, reluctantly, she might have the upper hand, at least for the moment. After her whisky-soaked introduction to the 214 last night and his admittedly impulsive fly-over after the morning's mission, now she found him crawling around on the ground with a pair of women's underwear in his hand. He grimaced. This wasn't going to play any better in the Stateside papers than anything else earlier reporters had written about the Black Sheep. His squadron was the hottest thing in the Southwest Pacific right now but that didn't translate to handling the press well.

She watched him, cool professionalism in every line of her body, as if she were in a war room briefing with the top brass at Pearl, not standing in the heat and dirt of an island in the Empire of Japan's backyard, talking to a man who'd just retrieved a woman's undergarment from underneath a truck. The sparkle in her eye made him think she was happier to be here than he was to have her here.

"It's Meatball." He knew it sounded lame but there was nothing for it. "He steals women's lingerie."

She nodded slowly, obviously not understanding but willing to humor him.

"And how does your dog get access to women's lingerie in the middle of a Marine Corps fighter base?" Her tone was amused without being judgmental.

"How do you think?" Greg was not in the mood to be accommodating. She was bright enough. She could figure it out by herself.

She didn't miss a beat.

"One would presume the woman who owns them wasn't wearing them at the time they were, um, liberated. Since the hospital is a six mile round trip from the base, I doubt your dog went all the way there and let himself into the nurses' quarters. Which means . . ." The smile grew bigger. " . . . they came off here on the base. Would that be correct?"

"Yes." He didn't feel the need to elaborate. He'd learned when dealing with the press, if you gave them one word answers, sometimes they got tired of trying to chisel information out of you and gave up.

"And do you know who they belong to?"

"Yes."

"So you've seen them before?"

She wasn't the giving-up type. Just his luck.

"No."

"Then how do you know whose - ?"

He cut her off.

"They belong to one of my men's girls." This was going from bad to worse and she showed every indication of enjoying herself.

"Does this sort of thing happen often?" She didn't pull out her notebook but Greg could see her taking mental notes just the same. He took a silent moment to curse Colonel Lard, the press corps, Meatball and TJ, not necessarily in that order, and Lieutenant Dorrie Axline, too, for not having better sense than to let TJ get under her skirt here on the base. He had more things to do than trying to explain any of this to a reporter. The only way it could have been worse was if he'd been the one responsible for removing them.

"Does which sort of thing happen often – nurses taking their panties off on the base or my dog stealing them?"

If he'd expected his blunt approach to make her uncomfortable, it didn't. She looked perfectly willing to continue the conversation, no matter where it went.

"Let's start with the first one."

"My pilots aren't choir boys, Miss Cameron." He added the honorific to remind her she was a civilian and existed here only at his convenience.

"It's Kate," she replied. "And I saw that firsthand last night. You didn't answer my original question, _Major_."

She put just enough inflection on his rank to let him know two could play this game. She intrigued him on a number of levels but why couldn't she have been a nurse or a USO girl or anything but a reporter? He'd have known exactly how to handle her then. Not that she made him uncomfortable but she had a way of keeping him just the slightest bit off balance because she clearly didn't care what he thought about her. And _that_ was something he wasn't used to from women.

"What question was that?"

"Who should you have left in China?"

"Meatball."

She blinked and he could see the next question forming before she asked it.

"I don't have time to explain." He turned on his heel and left her standing in the dusty track.

He had plenty of time. The Black Sheep had flown their morning patrol, debriefed, gone over damage reports with Micklin and Hutch, then dispersed for the rest of the day. The only pending squadron business he had at the moment was returning Lieutenant Axline's underwear to TJ, in hopes TJ could get back in his girl's good graces and keep his mind on what he was doing in the air. Yeah. He had plenty of time, he just wasn't going to spend any more of it with her than he had to.

Meatball came around the corner of the ops shack, licking crumbs off his lips.

"You're nothing but trouble," Greg said to the dog. "I ought to make _you_ deal with the press."

Meatball trotted past him without so much as a second glance. Greg turned to see Cameron kneel and hold her hand out to the dog, who bounded cheerfully toward her, tail wagging, to lick her face while she rubbed his ears.

"There's no accounting for taste," he muttered and went to find TJ.

 **XXX**

 **The next morning**

 **0600 hours**

Someone was watching her.

Kate could feel the eyes studying her as she lay on her bunk, feigning sleep. Slow, quiet breathing, the scuff of a foot as he shifted balance. How'd he gotten in, she wondered. She'd tied the mosquito netting shut last night before . . . oh, yeah . . . the events of the previous night replayed like a newsreel in her mind. She'd gone to shower at the nurse's quarters, only to return to find the boys had smuggled a rat into her bed. When she'd stopped swearing, Major Boyington – Greg, since they were on such a first name basis now - had paid her a visit, bearing a bottle of Scotch as a peace offering. _That_ had been an interesting conversation. It had been made even more interesting by the fact he was shirtless and wearing only his skivvies. She hadn't tried keeping her eyes on his face when there were so many other places they wanted to go. No one had prepared her for those blue eyes or rogue's smile.

"What are you doing here?" she asked as she rolled over.

Meatball thumped his tail delightedly. He was sitting at the edge of her bunk, his nose less than a foot from her face.

"Come to steal my underwear? I'm wise to you, buddy."

The tail thumped faster.

"You'll be disappointed. Mine aren't nearly as nice as what you had yesterday."

Meatball's tongue lashed out and caught her across the cheek.

"Good morning to you, too. How'd you get in here?" Kate rolled to a sit and swung her feet to the floor. She studied the tent door. The netting was undisturbed. She'd half expected another frat house escapade in the middle of the night but the dressing down Greg had given the boys about the rat apparently took the wind out of their sails. She doubted that would last.

She stood and cast her gaze around the tent. It was more of a jumble of supplies and black market trade goods than actual personnel quarters. Just one more reminder of how welcome she was – or wasn't – here. Her position was tenuous. While the boys seemed delighted with her presence – rats notwithstanding – Greg's reception ran hot and cold. Men. She would never understand them.

Meatball disappeared behind the stack of tarp-covered whisky crates. She heard the canvas rustle, followed by an odd scrabbling noise from under the floorboards, then he reappeared with a woman's shoe in his mouth. Kate's eyebrows shot up.

"Did you bring me a present?"

The dog dropped the shoe and grinned.

"So you like shoes as much as panties?"

Meatball tilted his head and regarded her.

"Hmmm. I see. Not as much but they'll do if you can't find anything else. I think you have a problem, you know that?"

She picked up the shoe. It was a high-heeled peep toe pump in black suede.

"Nice." She narrowed her eyes at the dog. "Listen, you. Don't you think for a minute you're going to get free access to my clothes just because I'm living here now, you got that? I expect my shoes AND my underwear to stay exactly where I put them." She looked at the pump, then at her own battered leather boots and added, "Although none of my stuff is even close to being this nice."

Meatball spun around, grabbed the shoe and disappeared again. This time Kate followed him, wedging her way past a crate stenciled "Grenades" to see the tip of his tail slip under the canvas of the back wall and disappear. Again, the odd noise resounded under her feet, then the dog reappeared. This time he was carrying a bra. It was an exquisite lace confection that had Fredericks of Hollywood written all over it.

"Where are you getting all of this?" Kate muttered as she took it from the dog.

Meatball looked at her expectantly.

"Is this just show and tell? Would you like it back?" She started to return it, then stopped. "Wait." She held up one finger and hastily stripped off her sleep shirt and pulled on her own bra, then a T-shirt, shorts, socks and boots. Untying the netting, she whistled for Meatball and stepped out of the tent. She handed him the bra, which he took happily and darted off with Kate on his heels.

Like many of the buildings on the base, the VIP tent was elevated slightly off the ground to aid in ventilation and to keep the floor boards from rotting in the tropical humidity. Meatball rounded the corner to the tent's back side. She watched as the terrier flattened to his belly and crawled under the structure. She noticed the dirt had been scratched out to deepen the space. Within seconds he was back, having exchanged the bra for a pair of black lace panties. He presented them with the air of a gentleman giving a girl a bouquet of roses.

Kate took the garment, shaking her head in disbelief. Nurses clearly made more money than correspondents if they could afford clothes like this. Her own practical foundation-wear looked absolutely ragged by comparison. On the other hand, if the dog's standards were this high, her clothing shouldn't be in any danger. She shook her head in amusement. The shoe, the bra and the panties Meatball had given her had all been in pristine condition. Other than being a bit sandy, they weren't damaged. That surprised her. The dogs she'd grown up with hadn't been above stealing shoes or socks, either, but the items were usually chewed beyond recognition by the time they were recovered.

"And you do this because . . . ?" she addressed the dog.

He spun in a happy counter-clockwise circle.

"Because you think it's funny? And now it's our little secret? What if I tell Greg where your stash is?"

Meatball regarded her, then spun in another circle.

"Yeah. Thought so. You'll just start hiding your prizes somewhere else." She sighed and looked around. "You ever think maybe the girls would like to have their things back?"

Meatball gave the canine equivalent of a shrug.

Kate handed him the panties – really, what was she going to do with them – and watched as he disappeared under her tent, then reemerged, looking pleased but without anything in his jaws this time.

"Lucky for you, I have more important things on my agenda this morning but I'm going to tell Greg about this when I get a chance. Time for you to come clean and repent."

Kate suspected as long as the Black Sheep kept talking their girls out of their clothes, there wouldn't be a great deal of repenting taking place anywhere but it seemed wrong not to tell Greg she'd found his dog's collection of ill-gotten gains. She gave Meatball a final scratch behind the ears and headed to morning mess.

 **XXX**

 **1100 hours**

"Thanks, guys." Kate took her Remington typewriter out of its case and set it on the desk Don French and Bobby Anderson had just carried into her tent. Their delivery relieved her of having to ask Greg for one, which made her happy. The fact he'd instructed Don and Bobby to bring a desk made her realize he was thinking about her and offering at least a token degree of cooperation. She should feel happy about that, too, but so far her reception by the 214's CO had been less than cordial. If he was deliberately trying to put her off her game, it was working. Not that she had any intention of letting him know that.

"Can we get you anything else?" Don asked. Kate thought the boys were being extra nice to her today in light of last night's rat-in-the-bunk episode. She knew that incident had been intended to send her trembling into their collective arms but it hadn't worked quite as they'd hoped. She'd dealt with worse things than rats in her globe-trotting career with the Associated Press and had dispatched the varmint in short order. Playing damsel-in-distress had never been her cup of tea.

Kate shared the boys' willingness to let bygones be bygones. If she could get a majority of the squadron to realize she wasn't here to do a hack job on them in the papers, maybe their CO would come around. That would make her job a whole lot easier. She was posted here indefinitely and would prefer to keep the only war being fought to the one against the Japanese.

She beamed at the two pilots.

"If you see Greg, would you tell him I'd like to see him, please?"

 **XXX**

 **1300 hours**

He had half a mind to ignore the request. If she wanted to see him, she could damn well come find him. The base wasn't that big and he had other priorities. Yeah. He'd just keep telling himself that. Yet for some inexplicable reason, here he was, headed to her tent like he was at her beck and call.

The flap was open. He stuck his head inside.

"Cameron?"

"Back here." The shout was muffled.

"Where?"

"Here!" Muffled and irritated. And coming from under his feet.

He circled the tent.

"I see you got the desk. What else do you –"

He stopped short. A pair of exquisite legs extended from a shallow depression beneath the tent. She'd taken her boots off and bare toes dug into the sandy soil as the legs kicked at random, apparently due to the fact the upper half of her body was doing something completely out of sight.

Greg thought of a lot of things he could say. He didn't say any of them but took a moment to admire the view. She was wearing shorts fashioned from old fatigues but their modest cut only accentuated the lean curve of her thighs. He watched as she braced her toes in the sand and disappeared further into the hole. He could hear muffled swearing and wondered, briefly, if he should grab her ankles and pull her out. He didn't, instead letting his gaze drift down the smooth length of her calves. If she wanted help, she could ask.

He noticed Meatball sitting nearby. The dog looked perturbed.

Drawn by the shouting, Jim, Don and Bobby Anderson wandered up.

"What's going on?" Jim asked.

"Not sure," Greg said truthfully. He'd stopped thinking about what she might be doing when he'd started admiring her legs.

Now the legs and hips began a series of interesting gyrations as she belly crawled backward from under the tent. As she emerged, Greg saw she had a penlight clenched in her teeth and her arms were extended in front of her, cradling what looked like a twisted rainbow of fabric.

She spat out the light, deposited a tangled armful of lingerie on the ground and rolled onto her butt to look up at him. Her clothes were covered with sand and there was a smudge of dirt across one cheek. She looked pleased.

"Six garter belts, five bras, eight pair of panties and two teddies. Your boys have been busy."

He noticed she'd been careful not to include him in that assumption. At least not out loud. He extended a hand and she grasped it. He pulled her easily to her feet. This was the third time in less than two days he'd picked her up off the ground and he was starting to think she did it on purpose. He was starting to think he didn't mind.

"I trust none of it's yours?" He waved a hand at the collection of garments.

She shot him a look.

"No." Her voice was crisp. She picked up a garter belt from the pile and dangled the frothy bit of lace from one finger. "I don't own anything like this. And if I did, I wouldn't be taking it off around here."

"Too bad." He was baiting her but he couldn't help it.

She flashed him a look of pure annoyance but he caught a quick, amused quirk of her mouth before she settled for exasperation.

"Hey!" Don stepped forward, studying the garter belt with recognition. "That belongs to Jeanie."

"I'm sure she'll be delighted to have it back." Kate held it out to him.

"Uh . . . yeah . . . no . . ." Don made no move to take it from her. Instead, he glared at Jim. Jim grinned and shrugged.

"Sorry, partner. Me and Jeanie, we, uh, ain't been on speakin' terms lately." The tall pilot shifted awkwardly. "Ah, Katie, you might hand that over to Boyle and see if he wants to give it back or sleep with it under his pillow."

"Ha." Don gave a satisfied snort. "She threw you over for Boyle? That's gotta hurt."

Jim's grimace told the story.

"Bet half of that stuff is hers," he said with a jerk of his head. "Didn't take much to get that girl out of her clothes. But then, I'm preaching to the choir." He looked at Don, who shook his head ruefully.

"I'll take these to Dee when I go up to the nurse's quarters later," Kate said hastily. She sat back down and began gathering the garments into a tidy pile. "Maybe they can sort out the rightful owners, no questions asked."

Realizing his collection was about to be dispersed, Meatball closed his eyes and dove into the pile. He rolled on his back with all four paws waving in the air. Kate shoved him out of the way. The dog turned around and climbed into her lap, rubbing his face against her shirt. Kate grabbed his muzzle and shook it.

"You stop that. Behave yourself."

Meatball looked chagrined but Greg noticed he'd come to rest with his head snuggled firmly between her breasts.

"What the hell am I going to do with him?" Greg crossed his arms. "He'll keep doing it, whether you take this all away from him today or not. He'll just keep stealing and hide them somewhere else. I don't know why he does it in the first place."

"My sister's the genius when it comes to the canine mind but I know one thing – as long as he finds the behavior rewarding, he's not going to stop." Kate looked down at Meatball, who was still in her lap. The dog snuggled his head a little bit, then froze when she narrowed her eyes at him. "And I'd say he finds it rewarding."

"Why?" Greg had never given much thought to why Meatball did anything he did. The dog was a law unto himself.

"He likes women, right?"

Greg looked at her in surprise. The dog liked everyone, with the possible exception of Colonel Lard.

"Yeah. So?"

"No, I mean he _really_ likes women. I watched him work the crowd that first night at the Sheep Pen. He went from one nurse to the next, trying to get attention. I've been here three days and he won't leave me alone." She laughed. "Like when I got off the plane – he couldn't get close enough. It makes sense he'd take items that smell like women, things that have been worn close to their skin."

Greg remembered that scene vividly. Kate had gone ass over apple cart in the dirt when Meatball gave her a truly affectionate welcome.

"So how do I make him stop?"

Kate pushed the dog off her lap and rose gracefully to her feet, dusting off her backside.

"It would help if the nurses kept their clothes on when they came out here. Or if your boys weren't so, um, accomplished, at getting them out of them."

Her face was composed but he caught the dry undertone of humor.

"That's not going to happen and we both know it."

She shrugged.

"If you can't eliminate a problem, you find a way to manage it."

He was pretty sure she'd categorized him solidly as a problem that couldn't be eliminated and the amusement in those gray eyes made him wonder how much he'd been managed in the last few days.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said.

 **XXX**

 **Two days later**

 **The Sheep Pen**

 **2000 hours**

Smoke curled on the air in fragrant blue wisps, courtesy of cigars sent to the Black Sheep by the 182nd bomber wing from Rendova. The boys in the 182nd had been especially appreciative of the 214 for saving their butts in a sticky mission a week earlier.

Greg tossed a card on the table and drew another one. He shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth and studied his executive officer. Jim's countenance reflected a level of disgruntlement unconnected to the cards he held.

Greg swallowed a chuckle. When the boys succeeded in romancing whatever female personnel were available, they couldn't wait to share the details. That hadn't been the case after Jim paid Bobby Anderson to take his place assisting Kate in the darkroom the previous evening. Greg knew the details, but not because Jim had told him. There hadn't been much to tell, in any case.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Jim pulled a face.

"No."

"Come on, James, we want to hear the story." Anderson grinned ingratiatingly, then frowned at his cards, adding, "since this hand Casey dealt is not entertaining me."

"I heard the famous Gutterman charm failed," Don laughed.

"Didn't fail." Jim discarded two cards and drew two more. "These things take time, ya'll know that."

Larry Casey snorted.

"She flamed your ass faster than Harachi. You weren't alone with her in that darkroom for more than 10 minutes before she shot you down."

The other boys laughed. Jim glared, then let a slow smile break over his face.

"Yepper," he drawled, "You go ahead and laugh but . . ." He took the cigar out of his mouth and studied it. "I got one kiss before she opened up on me. And let me tell you, it was worth the risk."

The boys hooted appreciatively, then Bobby Boyle turned to Greg.

"What happened after that, Pappy? She kicked Jim out of the darkroom, you went in and no one saw either of you again until the next morning at mess. Come on, I got a 20 says she wouldn't say no the Boyington charm."

"Do I look stupid, Boyle? The mood she was in, I kept my distance," Greg replied. Kate had been in a temper after that stolen kiss. He'd gone into the darkroom to talk her out of killing Jim in his sleep and had been careful not to do anything that would have turned that simmering fury on himself. Being alone with her had been akin to being in a small room with a live grenade after the pin had had been pulled.

He wouldn't deny the attraction, though. Some women were adorable when they were angry. That wasn't a word he'd use to describe Kate but the attitude snapping around her had given him plenty of ideas. God, what it would be like to tap into that energy under other circumstances. He shoved those thoughts out of his mind. The men were looking at him expectantly.

"We had a few drinks, that's all." He didn't elaborate. They'd had a few drinks and then they'd had a few more. They'd sat in the Sheep Pen, talking, until nearly 2 a.m.

"Who's still in the running for the bet?" Boyle looked around the table. The bet on who would do more than steal a kiss from the first female correspondent the unit had ever seen started the night Kate arrived. "Jim's out – "

"I am not out. I just need a different approach," Jim said. Greg thought he had a great deal of dignity for a guy who'd barely escaped having a steel film canister smashed over his head.

"Uh-huh." Boyle looked at Gutterman skeptically. "Jim's out, Casey and Anderson have steady girls, I think she's above my pay grade but I'll give it the ol' college try. That leaves French, Wiley and Pappy. How about it, TJ? She'd look nice on your arm. Or anywhere else."

The men snickered and TJ's smirk reflected pride in their acknowledgement of his conquests with the fairer sex.

"Can't you yahoos keep it in your pants?" Greg said. The Black Sheep's average age was 22 and it was rare for them to consider consequences beyond the immediate physical gratification made possible by the female personnel who shared the island. "She's press corps and she's here at Colonel Lard's request. Until I find out what her agenda is, I'd appreciate it if none of you talked in your sleep and told her things about this unit she doesn't need to know."

The boys' protests were cut short when the screen door slapped shut and they turned as one to see Kate walk in, Meatball trotting happily behind her. She crossed to the bar with the easy grace of a woman who knows the eyes of every man in the room are on her. She must have just come from the nurses' quarters, Greg thought. Her hair was still damp, hanging in loose ringlets over her shoulders, and the scent of soap and shampoo drifted on the air as she passed the table.

"Cameron." He raised his glass.

"Boyington." She acknowledged him with a quiet smile.

Greg held her eyes, then let his gaze flick down that knockout body and back to her face. He realized with a not unpleasant jolt she was doing the same thing. Not only that, she wasn't being particularly subtle about it, either. Her eyes lingered on his chest and shoulders, then met his. That sexy little quirk played around the corner of her mouth and Greg wondered just how much of the conversation she'd heard from outside the building. She lifted a bottle from the bar and poured two fingers of Scotch into a tumbler.

"Looking for something?" He kept his tone casual. It wasn't unusual for her to spend time in the Sheep Pen with the guys but he thought Jim's ill-fated pass might have put her off their company for a while. Apparently not.

"Just thought you boys would like to know the items Meatball borrowed have all been returned to their rightful owners," she said. "The girls asked me to relay the message that in the future, if any of you gentlemen were in the mood to . . . entertain . . . they would be obliged if you'd take them somewhere Meatball can't go."

"I got a couple places in mind where we could enjoy some alone time, darlin'." Jim gave her a friendly leer. "How about you and me give them a check ride."

"Why don't you take that check ride by yourself, Captain. Then at least one of us will be satisfied."

Boyle made a sizzling sound as he slashed a finger through air.

"Flamed again! Katie for the kill!"

Greg swallowed a smile. For all that he didn't trust her not to crucify his squadron in print, it was enjoyable to watch her put the boys in their place. Hell, it was enjoyable to watch her do anything.

"Have a seat, Katie, join us for a game." TJ patted the chair next to him. "Don said he'd sit this one out, he doesn't have any money left anyway, right, Frenchie?"

Don nodded morosely and gestured toward the chair.

"Be my guest."

Kate narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

"Play poker with you lot? No thanks."

"Come on, Cameron, consider it part of a day's work," Greg said. "I thought you were embedded with us to capture the whole fighter squadron experience for the papers."

"That's what I been tryin' to give her," Jim said and the other boys snickered.

The look she shot Jim had Greg thinking whoever tried to take that experience beyond a professional level might get more than he bargained for. The thought intrigued him more than it should.

"We'll go easy on you. Promise." Anderson took one arm and Boyle took the other and amidst her protests, they deposited her in a chair between Greg and TJ. For the first time since she'd arrived on La Cava, Greg saw that easy confidence waiver. He decided to push his advantage.

"Five card draw," he announced, holding her eyes as smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling. "You in?"

When she hesitated, he added, "Don't tell me you never played poker when you were stationed on those bases in the UK."

"I did," she replied through gritted teeth. "But I never said I played it well."

He sensed her vulnerability and felt slightly vindicated. His pride was still stinging from having her first impressions of his squadron involve a bar brawl, an invasion of her personal space by one of his officers and full-scale lingerie theft by his own dog. It would be nice to regain the upper hand and a thorough beatdown at the poker table seemed like a diplomatic way to re-establish the power balance in his favor.

"Then you need the practice."

"All right, all right. Deal me in." She sighed and pulled up to the table. "But let the record show this was against my better judgment."

It didn't take long before Greg knew two more things about Kate Cameron than he had before she picked up her cards. One, she wasn't lying. She was a terrible poker player. It wasn't that she lacked understanding of the game but she wore her emotions on her sleeve with a complete inability to bluff. And her tells were almost enough to put him off his own game. A quick intake of breath, the slightest flush of color in her cheeks, the subtle shift of her body in the chair. He noticed these things, he realized, because he'd been watching her for reasons that had nothing to do with the game.

Two, if he had to sit next to her much longer, with the soap-fresh scent of her skin drifting over him, watching her bite that full lower lip in concentration, TJ or Jim or even Boyle was going to take the jackpot because he couldn't keep his mind on what he was doing. He couldn't remember the last time a girl had that effect on him by just . . . existing. Hell, she wasn't even doing anything. She was just sitting there. Playing poker. Badly.

To her credit, she lasted nearly an hour before she tossed her cards on the table.

"I'm out," she said with finality. "If I don't stop now, I'm going to owe you guys more than my next paycheck is worth."

"I'd let you take it out in trade," Jim said.

"Do you ever stop?" She glared at him, then turned those smoke gray eyes on Greg. "And you. I was assured you'd be glad to help with me with whatever I needed on this assignment."

"What exactly do you need, Cameron?" Greg's tone was easy and he didn't try to keep the smile off his face. Even if she got fed up with the Black Sheep and left tomorrow, he'd enjoyed her presence more than any woman who ever visited the base, including the women who'd been there specifically to enjoy his company.

"I'll let you know." She spun on her heel and headed toward the door. Meatball bounded after her.

Greg leaned back in his chair and watched her leave. The confidence was back and her bold stride did nothing to reduce the sensual swing of her hips.

"Whattaya gonna do about her, Greg?" Jim shuffled the cards without taking his eyes off the departing figure.

"If you can't eliminate a problem, you find a way to manage it," Greg mused. He took a sip of Scotch. "Looks like I'm gonna have to manage it."

 **THE END**

Want to know how he managed it? Read the whole story in "Front Page News: Second Edition."

Thanks for reading and thanks to everyone in the Sheep Pen for your endless support and encouragement. This sort of thing is all your fault.


End file.
